


Scandal

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 14:22:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10878630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Legolas believes Elrohir’s done him wrong.





	Scandal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lindirisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindirisms/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for lindeaewen’s “24. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad” Legolas/Elrohir” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Servants cower in his wake, though Legolas fights to keep the fury off his face. He struggles for control. He knows he fails, and with a final push of resolve, he descends the stairs. He spent so long fuming that Elrohir will have certainly had time to make it back. He only hopes that Elrohir didn’t retreat to _Legolas’_ quarters, a place he’s no longer welcome.

Down the corridor of guest chambers, Legolas all but kicks open the final door. He pushes it so hard that it slams against the wall and rebounds back—he has to hold up a hand to stop it. Sprawled out on the bed, Elrohir startles, head jerking up from a book. Legolas lets the door swing itself shut as he marches to the edge of the bed. He stops himself from crawling onto it, because he doesn’t want to really _fight_ Elrohir, though his body screams for contact. Elrohir’s handsome face looks up at him with nothing but confusion. Elrohir’s such a _liar_. But Legolas should’ve known that. He always knew Elrohir was mischievous. He just never thought it would reach _this_ level, and it’s all Legolas can do not to scream. 

Voice ice cold with his rage, Legolas seethes, “How _could you_?”

Elrohir only blinks. His grey eyes are wide and innocent, his chiseled features the picture of perfection. In a loose tunic and trousers, he looks just ridden in from the hunt, but Legolas knows where he’s really come from. He’s clearly changed, maybe in the hopes that he wouldn’t be recognized, but Legolas would know him anywhere. Legolas knows ever centimeter of his body, every strand of hair. He’s attractive for his own good. Legolas wants to rip the book from his hands and throw it at him.

Finally, comprehension seems to dawn on him, and he pales. The reaction isn’t enough. He should be on his knees, begging forgiveness, but instead, he asks, “Did they get out? I was so careful to lock them in Feren’s rooms! I honestly thought it would only trouble him, I promise, it was merely—” 

“This is not one of your childish pranks!” Legolas roars, even more infuriated by the blatant lie. Legolas doesn’t care to hear _what_ Elrohir claims to have put in Feren’s chambers; he has no doubt Feren won’t provide an alibi. He couldn’t anyway. Legolas saw it with his own eyes. The memory swirls up again, the imagine ingrained in his mind, and Legolas splutters, “How could you flirt with my own _father_? Have you no shame? And right out in a courtyard for everyone to see! He is twice your age, and what is more—what?” He cuts off when he realizes that the colour has come back into Elrohir’s face, and now he actually has the gall to _grin_. Legolas shouts far louder than he means to, “This is not funny!”

Elrohir just shakes his head, mirth clear across his face, and the more Legolas looks, the more he wants to punch it. He can understand his father’s interest, and of course, he can understand Elrohir’s interest in his father—he’s well aware of the King of the Woodland Realm’s reputation. But to actually _act on it_ , after all they’ve been through together, is just cruel. Elrohir opens his mouth, and Legolas rolls on before he can deny it, “I saw you, Elrohir! I saw you straddling his lap, your eyes on his mouth and your hand in his hair. I do not care if he touched you in return—you should never have enticed him to begin with! I hope he throws you out on your rear!” 

Elrohir lifts his brows and sets his book down. When he moves to climb off the bed, Legolas steps back, because he can feel his fists balling at his sides, and he doesn’t want to use them. But Elrohir just walks towards him, hushing, “My prince, be calm...”

“I will not,” Legolas hisses. The _nerve_. Elrohir only steps closer, hips swaying with his usual style, and when he leans closer, Legolas jerks away, fuming, “You had best not try to kiss me now, son of Elrond.”

Elrohir counters casually, “And when did you see this abomination, son of Thranduil?”

“As though you do not know! I passed by only this morning, though goodness knows how long it has gone on, and I have spent my time since fuming and wondering how to end it with you. I cannot decide if I want to see you rot in the dungeons or shoot an arrow through your heart.”

“Even though it could not possibly have been me?” Elrohir laughs, and Legolas can barely hear the words, because that familiar chuckle still makes his heart clench. “As several of your own servants will attest to, I spent all morning gathering deer from the forest and crowding them into Feren’s chambers. He should be off duty soon enough, and then we will hear the startled cry that sings my alibi. I did this by myself, I might add, as my twin was too busy off gallivanting with his own desires to aid me.”

The declaration gives Legolas only a minute’s pass. Then he presses, “Elladan did not come with you.” At the look in Elrohir’s eyes, Legolas hesitates, falters, and mumbles quietly, “He... did?”

“He did not _arrive_ with me,” Elrohir clarifies, “For he strayed in the woods to flirt with one of your sentries. But _I_ had a beautiful prince to return to, and I came as swiftly as I could. ...Though I confess I did neglect you this morning. You must forgive me; I believe Feren stole my wine at last night’s supper, and revenge simply had to be exacted. Did you know he is not overly fond of any four-legged animal? Apparently, attending your father’s pampered elk has given him a poor taste for them.”

Legolas didn’t know and couldn’t care less. He conjures up the image in his mind again, though he’d sworn to forget it, and wonders how he could’ve been so wrong. It could’ve been Elladan. And surely, when he pauses to think about it, his father, as disparate as they are, wouldn’t intentionally steal his lover...

Feeling as horribly foolish as he felt angry only a moment ago, Legolas whispers, “I apologize.”

“You do not have to,” Elrohir slyly returns. “I happen to find you wildly attractive when you are mad.” This time, when he steps forward, Legolas doesn’t move back. He lets Elrohir loop an arm around him, and a huge sense of _relief_ melts in his chest; he didn’t want to give up these arms. Elrohir gently brushes his lips over Legolas’, and then, before Legolas can deepen the kiss, he muses, “But you really should have been able to tell us apart, you know. Surely by now, you have learned my body well enough. ...Or do you still need lessons?”

In the light of his horrid mistake, Legolas doesn’t scold Elrohir for the teasing. Blushing thickly, he mutters, “I admit there was some distance, and he was curled in around—no, I do not even want to think about it.”

“Just as well,” Elrohir decides before pecking Legolas’ cheek. “It is all well. ...For I have won the more beautiful of the Woodland blonds, even if Elladan thinks he has topped me! ...Although, I would not say no to a _physical_ apology.” He winks, and if Legolas could blush harder, he would.

Instead, he lightly pushes Elrohir’s chest. Elrohir drifts back to the bed, perching down at the edge, legs spread. And Legolas sinks to his knees, ready to learn again and earn full forgiveness.


End file.
